


Picturesque

by klutzysurgeon



Category: One Piece
Genre: Baking, Christmas, Cora tries to bake something, Fluff, Holidays, Law is kind of a holiday grouch, M/M, Nutella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-21 21:49:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13152720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klutzysurgeon/pseuds/klutzysurgeon
Summary: “...I always wanted a white Christmas like that,” Rocinante admits, voice quiet and wistful. “The postcard kind, fireplace and all."Rocinante tries to bring some Christmas magic into the season with a fun baking project; it goes about as well as you expect.





	Picturesque

The holidays are a time for family, for gift giving and well-wishing and just taking a break from it all. It’s Christmas magic in the air and nostalgic songs on repeat, dreams of white winters and cozy fires and being with the ones you love. It’s gingerbread and sugar cookies, decorations and lights hung everywhere and Rocinante has always _adored_ the holidays, always spread cheer, always found magic in the occasion. He loves, loves, loves Christmas time with all of his heart, counting down the days with all the holiday spirit typical of small children.

Unfortunately, Law does not share his enthusiasm.

It’s only the middle of December but already his lover is tired of the season, bah humbug attitude almost saddening. Rocinante wants to do something to try and make the season more festive, to try and get Law to like it just a little bit more. He knows Law doesn’t want anymore decorations— _“A tree is plenty, Cora”—_  and inspiration comes in the form of a recipe he stumbles across while looking up holiday ideas, tabs open on _Fun Holiday Crafts!_ and _Simple Cinnamon Fragrance Trick_ and _Search: festive holiday things to do_ when _Nutella Pastry Christmas Tree_ shows up on a recipe blog, an aesthetic picture of the food displayed beside it that has him clicking immediately.

Law isn’t too much a fan of sweets, but he _does_ have a weak spot for chocolates.

An hour later and Rocinante’s got a grocery bag filled with ingredients and cinnamon sticks simmering on the stove, the scent filling the air beautifully. “People are so creative!” he muses to himself, rolling out puff pastry dough. The flour kind of went everywhere, but he can clean it up later and half the fun of baking is making a mess, anyway. He traces a triangle out of the rough rectangle of dough, slathering it down with the chocolate-hazelnut paste and stealing a few spoonfuls for himself.

Rolling the second layer of pastry on top proves a little difficult, his hands ending up thoroughly sticky by the time he gets it arranged right but he licks it off and washes his hands and gets back to work, humming to himself as he cuts out the shape of branches. He only cuts himself once and counts it a success, a minor nick in his finger from pressing the dough down too close to where he’d been cutting. He even manages not to bleed on the pastry, pulling a bandaid out of the container they keep in the kitchen and pulling up the recipe to double-check.

“Got the pastries, the chocolate, the shape… Gotta twist it and make the star and… eggwash?” he questions, zooming in on the text. He hadn’t noticed that step before.

An unfortunate search tells him that’s not just a technique name; it literally involves eggs, which they do not have at the moment. Well. Recipes are meant to be customizable, aren’t they? “It’s probably just an aesthetic thing,” Rocinante shrugs to himself, carefully twisting the branches into shape. The star goes last, squished into place at the top and he’s sorely tempted to take a picture, marvelling at his own creation.

It’s beautiful _and_ it’s edible. Law should have no complaints; he hopes he’ll like it, even just a little bit. It gets carefully slid into the oven and then Rocinante turns to clean up, mopping up all the spilled flour on the counter. There’s more on him than he thought, sleeves and shirt dusted with white and he runs his hand through his hair without thinking, freezing with white specks in his hair and resigning himself to the fact he’ll just have to shower.

It takes a few minutes before the smell starts to set in but Rocinante pauses when it does, standing and sniffing for a moment. The smell of cinnamon has been filling the air since before he started but now it’s turning a little sickly sweet, the smell of bread and chocolate mixing in. He hadn’t considered that the scents would mix and it quickly becomes so strong he’s a little dizzy, walking out of the kitchen and heading for the adjacent dining room.

It has a little window that opens up, though they rarely ever use it since it only views the apartment hallway. Still, it’d be good for ventilation— if it would open. “Come onnnn,” Rocinante whines. He’s a little afraid of pulling too hard and breaking it but it seriously won’t move and he’s getting a little frustrated. It takes several minutes just trying to get the latches unstuck and then the window itself won’t budge, leaving him slumped against it in defeat.

He figures maybe he’ll adjust to the horrible sickly-sweet scent, but the familiar smell of burning, however, has him jolting up from the window immediately. _“Shit!”_

All at once the smell assaults him when he stumbles back in and he honestly thinks he might pass out, overwhelmingly sweet smell leaving his stomach churning. He forgot to set a timer for the pastry and the cinnamon water has splashed out onto the stove somehow, strongly-scented steam filling the small kitchen as he tries to breathe shallowly through his mouth and hastily throws his oven mitts on, pulling the pastry out of the oven and staring.

It’s not……. _so_ bad.

The edges look a little brown— he doesn’t really want to look at the bottom— and, okay, that’s not really the same color as the one in the picture but camera filters always make the food look a little different, and… the lopsidedness is cute, if he squints really hard.

“...It’s not cute at all,” Rocinante admits to himself, dejectedly shoving the mitts back in their drawer. He just wanted to do something special, something festive. He wanted to put some Christmas magic in the air; instead, it smells like a holiday perfume collection broke in their kitchen, stove burner off but cinnamon still simmering in its pot, the scent permeating into the room. Into the whole apartment, probably. Cleaning up the mess is easy, but he has no idea how to get rid of the smell.

Especially not before Law comes home— not when the door is already opening, familiar sound sending pure terror down his spine. _Oh no._ “I’m home, Cor–”

The sound breaks off into a wheezed cough and Rocinante towels his hands off, rushing to the front door only to hear the sound of it closing. _Beep!_

He nearly runs right into the door, startled by the sound of his phone and he checks it on reflex, message from Law on the screen. _Going to go get some nausea meds_ reads the bland text and he all but throws open the door, flagging Law down in the hallway. “Wait wait wait!” Rocinante calls. “Law no wait come back help please I can’t get the window open,” he whines, catching up and throwing himself over Law’s shoulders.

The surgeon huffs under his weight, glaring at him out of the corner of his eyes. “You smell like Christmas threw up on you,” Law mutters. He shrugs the blonde off but turns and heads back to the apartment, Rocinante following closely with his head down like a scolded child. “What were you even trying to do, Cora?”

They both gag when they make it into the kitchen, Rocinante gesturing sheepishly at the stove, burnt pastry sitting on the pan still, cinnamon water splashed everywhere. “I… wanted to do something festive,” he mumbles, gaze downcast. He’s still a mess himself, flour all over him, chocolate smudges on his arms and one on his cheek where he’d rubbed without thinking.

It’s a total failure, he thinks. Law’s silence only makes it worse, the man standing and assessing the damage. His grey eyes fall on Rocinante finally, darting between his hair and his clothes and his pouty expression. There’s a quirk to Law’s lips before a laugh slips out a moment later, the sound barely a huff of breath and Rocinante stares in disbelief as it’s repeated, louder chuckling taking its place.

Law is _laughing._ Rocinante feels his lips part, jaw going slack in a tiny _o_ of surprise. “You’re a fucking mess,” Law says, but there’s no bite to his words as he chuckles, pulling Rocinante down to kiss the chocolate off his lips and leaving the blonde smiling so wide his face hurts, warm relief flooding his veins.

The pastry may or may not be edible but god, it feels like a success anyway to hear that rare laugh, to see that faint smile on Law’s face even as he wrinkles his nose at the smell. “You really _do_ smell awful,” Law grimaces. The comment pulls a bark of laughter from Rocinante, pulling Law close into a smothering hug. “Oi, what’re you—”

“Mmm, I know,” he grins, cheeky edge to his voice. “We’ll have to make you smell like it too so we match!”

Law’s flustered squirming is more than worth the hour of scrubbing it takes to get the cinnamon smell mostly off the stove, Rocinante left grinning and humming to himself the entire time while Law gets the windows open and disposes of the poor, horribly crunchy pastry. It may not be the picturesque setting he’d been aiming for— it’s definitely nothing like the pretty picture on the blog— but Law’s laugh is playing on repeat in his head and that’s magical enough, for him.

“Hey, Law, we should make it together next time!”

_“Absolutely not.”_

 

* * *

 

It’s half past nine by the time they’re finally settled down, takeout containers littering the coffee table, Rocinante idly flipping through the TV channels with Law curled up next to him under their blanket. The thought of cooking in their kitchen threatened to kill their appetite completely so they ordered in after putting out some bowls filled with coffee beans, the internet helpfully suggesting that it will absorb the smells. It certainly can’t make it any _worse._

Now they’re fed and cozy and showered, slightly damp hair free of flour once more, trying to settle on something to watch. They’ve seen most of these holiday movies before, much to Law’s despair, and Rocinante ends up stopping on the music channel, fireplace crackling softly on the screen, snow falling out the window beside it on loop.

“...I always wanted a white Christmas like that,” Rocinante admits, voice quiet and wistful. “The postcard kind, fireplace and all. Though I know you don’t like the snow,” he chuckles, almost sad. Law tilts his head to stare up at him, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He slides closer, tilts his head up to place a soft kiss on Rocinante’s jaw. He doesn’t see magic in the holidays but he feels it here, in whatever blessing has allowed him to have this. “I think this is better than some Hallmark bullshit,” he says, simple and honest as he rests his head on Rocinante’s chest.

Looking at him, Rocinante can’t help but hold him closer, giving him a squeeze as he smiles, warm and sincere. “Yeah,” he agrees, closing his eyes to take it all in: the warmth of Law against him and the distant holiday music playing softly, the lingering smell of cinnamon in the air. Law’s smile, nearly hidden from where his face is nested against his sweater, hand seeking his to twine their fingers together under the blanket.

It’s nothing like the postcards, but it’s _his;_ picture-perfect after all.

“I think so too.”

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaa happy holidays! my lovely friend fed me with the message of "i want cora to be really into stupid pinterest craft projects" and after some back n forth expanding the idea I started this at like, five in the morning and wrote it in bits and pieces throughout the day; it's a little rushed, but I really wanted to post something for these two for xmas. Merry Coralaw Christmas!


End file.
